Sophistication
by thexlittlexlisa
Summary: She'd like to fall off the earth. She'd like to be the girl that never grew up, never grew old (literally, she can't even), and never lost her innocence. Debatable, she knows. — Twoshot (1/2)


**sophistication**

_the spaces in between_  
_two minds and all the places  
they have been_  
_the spaces in between_  
_i try to put my finger on it_

.  
.

**Flashforward**

She's on a train from Berlin to Vienna all by herself, staring out the window briefly when she catches a pair of eyes on her.

The elderly woman in the seat in front of her in the compartment smiles at her kindly. She must have such a good heart.

"Such a beautiful sad face you have." The woman declares almost inaudibly, with a thick German accent. She pauses for a second, observing eyes casting a shadow on her demure and hollow face. "Have you lost anything, dear?"

"No. Nothing."

(She never will.)

* * *

She doesn't realize he's come home and that he's watching from the door as she dances to the beat of the music in his flannel buttoned-down shirt and shorts.

She hates wearing shorts but she feels slutty just wearing his shirt and underwear (even if no one is watching her in the safety of their bedroom) so she ignores the disdain she feels towards the white cotton shorts.

She sings along with the voice on the radio ever so faintly so only she can hear.

Her foot taps rhythmically against the smooth and sleek hard wooden floor and makes sure her leg is straight and pointed. She shakes her hips like she doesn't know how and feels more than just a little silly, but for some reason that thought makes her feel happy. She's normal. She can make mistakes. She can be imperfect. She is real.

She hears someone behind her finish the chorus and she turns around quickly, her heart hammering against her chest at the thought of being caught like this. His arms are crossed across his chest, and he's leaning against the doorframe ever so slightly, staring at her.

"Keep going." He murmurs softly and there's something about the way he looks at her that makes her want to continue, to never stop.

And she starts again and somewhere in the middle he joins her and she can't stop laughing and giggling as he picks her up and spins her around in his arms. She puts her palms against his cheeks delicately, running her fingers through his blonde curls in distraction and all of a sudden he stops spinning her around and she feels light-headed and dizzy.

He holds her there in place and unconsciously she feels her legs wrapped around his waist tightly for security as gravity and stillness sink in into the pit of her stomach. He's staring at her with emotions that flit by and around so quickly she just can't catch up or hold them long enough to decipher their meaning.

He kisses her forehead with so much gentleness (nearly so unknown to _everyone_ else) "You're beautiful," he whispers truthfully and there's something about the way he says it, the way he looks at her that makes her believe that just maybe she is.

That maybe she just doesn't have glittering blonde hair and sharp blue eyes. That maybe beauty isn't about intricate sophistication or dolled up glamour, but about the way a man looks at you and can see right into your soul and speak the world's truth into you with the simplest words, with the simplest of gestures.

She wants to contemplate if this is love, if this is what they mean when they say never let go; but her mind skips around and her breathing becomes too erratic for her to concentrate as his mouth dips down to the skin right below her neck and his slender fingers pry open the buttons of the shirt she's wearing precisely.

The world spins around them and the lights dim in her head. He's the only one that's ever made love to her, for her.

* * *

She's in love with him. She knows it. Has known it since – _god_, it doesn't even matter, all that matters is she knows, feels it willingly – finally.

It's the way they react the same way, with the same words, simultaneously. It's the way she can slap him and he'll know what she's thinking or the way he can pin her down and know just what she needs to calm down, can stop her before she does something she'll regret later. It's the way he talks back, banters with her and knows just where to stick it right back like no one else, the way their tempers can explode like dominoes falling back on one another, but when all is said and done, they're still completely good with each other. It's the way he cares but doesn't like to be overtly obvious about it either.

It's the way he is her frenemy and gets _stuff_, stuff like the fact that she's not entirely ready to label _them_, daddy issues, mommy issues, trust issues and all ("Just know I'll always be here, love. Just know you can always trust me.), but can still make her feel oversized butterfly's fluttering in her stomach when he comes near her or looks at her from across the street and keeps her gaze there with his.

It's the way she's a woman and he's a man and it's just pure chemistry.

* * *

When they first met he promised her they'd travel the world together. 'Seeing the world all by yourself can make you feel so lonely sometimes,' he had whispered into her ear as they had looked down from the rooftop into the New York City streets.

She had laughed and leaned forward to kiss his mouth in delight.

They visited as many countries as they could. From stolen kisses under the Eiffel Tower in Paris and thrilling escapades across bustling streets of Barcelona to quiet embraces in front of mosaic-tiled walls of the Taj Mahal of Agra, she saw the world through different, more curious eyes than she once had before.

They travel for amusement and discovery less and less often though, and soon he tells her he prefers the homeliness and comforts of their New Orleans loft. He keeps himself shut behind closed doors where time is frozen and never moves forward.

She watches his promises slip through his fingers without a care.

* * *

Her world is spiraling downward. It has been ever since she was born. She's not a cliché. God, don't _ever_ call her a cliché. Don't call her a mess. Don't call her broken. Don't call her a disaster. But most importantly don't call her beautiful. Don't fucking call her anything.

This is real. Everything is real and she is not woeful or in need of anyone's pity. But bitterness, bitterness is fair game. She's entitled that at least, right? She doesn't care what others think. She just doesn't.

* * *

She'd like to fall off the earth. She'd like to be the girl that never grew up, never grew old (literally, she can't even), and never lost her innocence.

_Debatable_, she knows.

He'd like to be the man that didn't ruin her, didn't bring her down with him. He'd like to be the man that didn't drown her in his own sorrows and insecurities.

But he's a Mikaelson after all (no matter how hard he tried to be a Forbes) and that's what Mikaelson's do best.

* * *

He calls her in sporadic, erratic intervals. But he appears like a chronic plague, has been hibernating and gaining magnitude in shallow microbial graves. Prevention is the best cure, and she has a syringe full of wary concern.

Once, after a date, he brought her to the Jackson square. They paused just before the top step of Saint Louis Cathedral under the flower arrangements, and he reached for her hand. Startled, Caroline felt him lean closer, closer and

"Klaus, wait."

"Are you going to reject me again, Caroline?" he teased.

"I think—  
_(there's a space that can't be bridged)_  
I want—  
_(there's a time that can't be spanned)_  
I know—"

"Caroline, you understand me better than anyone else."

_That's the problem, you see._  
She understood him far too well.

* * *

They can't go back to just being friends – after everything, they just _can't_.

Or maybe it's just _she_ can't.

* * *

Rain emits a fragrance tough to miss. It's virulent, inclusive, and leeched into cotton and wool. Plastic is exempt because it is fake. And so, Caroline hoists her scarlet-slashed umbrella overhead and inches near the sidewalk edge.

She's in heels, strange but nice, and her new dress is getting soaked by the second. She checks her watch (the one her mother gave her years ago). It's almost time. A taxi pulls up, veers in front. She signals for the trunk to be opened and in goes her cherry-red suitcase.

"Airport, please."

Gripped in her hand is a one-way ticket.

He'd be fine (she leaves a note)  
She'd call him soon (she promises so)  
On the other side of the world: hello

* * *

Elena opens her door to find her, red eyed, clothes rumpled, hair disarrayed, and pulls her into her arms wordlessly.

"Oh Care," she breathes into her hair, eyes troubled as she rubs her back reassuredly, "Why do you always do this to yourself?" she asks sadly.

"It just didn't feel right anymore," she chokes out, the words getting muffled against the fabric on the brunette's shoulder.

Elena holds her hand the entire night and doesn't ask a single question because that's what being best friends is all about.

* * *

"You should talk to him about this at least – it's only fair, Care." Elena, always so wise, so sensible, so supportive — always looking out for her best interests, such a perfect, pretty girl.

She wishes she was more like her sometimes, because Elena—Elena was always put first.

"Whatever, he's an idiot." She gruffly replies, not turning her head away from the television screen.

"You don't mean that." She returns evenly.

She doesn't respond.

* * *

The phone rings. Once. Twice. Tri_—_

"Hello?"

She misses the sound of his voice. There's something so comforting about the weight in it.

It used to be the voice she heard in the morning when she woke up, the voice that whispered to her as she fell asleep.

"I know it's you Caroline, love."

She stops breathing. Of course he knows. It's caller ID. But still, for him to finally reveal the truth makes it different. She hears him take a deep breath.

"Never guessed you really would call after you rushed out of New Orleans like a scalded cat. Regretting it already, lov_—_"

She hangs up the phone in a flash, breathing hard and sliding down to her knees until she's finally crumbled against the wall.

* * *

She can't breathe for a second, her lungs struggling for air, and she splashes cold water against her face to get her body to start functioning properly again but it feels pointless, everything feels pointless, _god _when did she become so melodramatic, it's all his fault, it's always his fault.

_Why does everything have to be about him_?

Elena finds her on the bathroom floor, leaning against the bathtub, face and hair wet.

"I miss him," she says, voice strange and far away, like it isn't even her speaking.

Elena gazes at her knowingly, kneels down next to her, nodding her head and running a hand through her tousled blonde curls, "I know."

* * *

The next time she calls, he doesn't pick up.

She doesn't leave a message.

* * *

New Orleans has a strange _—_ different _—_ vibe when visiting again (at least to her).

She goes to Rousseau's. And she's looking through the drink menu, without actually seeing any of the names. She finally picks a random drink with alcohol and goes to the front counter.

She hasn't come into contact with Klaus in a week or two now. Sometimes, late at night, she still calls Marcel though. He always picks up.

And then through the window she sees them.

Klaus and Camille.

He's not really looking at the blonde, his eyes scanning his surroundings, but she has her arm hooked into his, and she's talking about something and doesn't seem to really care that he's not paying attention.

He looks a little irritated, a little restless and Caroline isn't sure if she wants to smile at it, or frown over it. And then out of nowhere, he grabs her chin, and kisses her hard. Camille reacts immediately, kissing him with equal enthusiasm and wrapping her arms around his neck lazily.

A nauseating feeling rolls over her, and_—_

"Miss? That will be $2.99"

She pays the money quickly before rushing out the exit, and into her car.

Caroline leaves, never looking back again.

* * *

It's been two years.

She moved to Paris. Her French is flawless and people find her charming and exhilarating and they smile at her, reel her in with their own dazzling smiles and it's like none of it ever happened. She doesn't hear from Klaus and she doesn't care. She thinks she might have started to even forget.

She keeps herself immersed in the parties and never-ending nightlife and drinks away life like there's no tomorrow and…everything is so absolutely gorgeous. She is absolutely gorgeous.

And that's all that matters for a girl like her. She knows that better than anyone else.

_(She been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.)_

She's been to the end of the world and back, been on the brink of insanity and returned, been loved and unloved and she remains unchanged because she doesn't need change, she hates change.

So this is what it's come to she thinks.

She tilts her head slightly upward, her eyes looking ahead with an air of defiance.

.  
.

_Sophisticated — God, she's so sophisticated._

* * *

**A/N: **This is kinda, I don't know. It came to my mind and I just wanted to form it into a piece of art (mission not accomplished!). Just showing how difficult it is for Klaus and Caroline to have a stable _—_ functionally, relationship. It doesn't really has a good, reasonable plot or anything and there are probably hundreds of mistakes and partly are the characters extremely out of character, which makes it even harder for me to write the second part of this piece (obviously it'll be from Klaus point of view).


End file.
